Blossom Street. Debbie Macomber

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      “I would hope not,” she blurted. “And let me tell you that if I was going to steal, it wouldn’t be teaspoons.”

      “Makes sense.”

      “Then she said I hid her purse. I searched for an hour and found it tucked behind the sofa cushions. When I showed it to her, she said I was the one who’d put it there.”

      Susannah groaned. “Oh, Martha, I’m so sorry.”

      “I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” the housekeeper said, sounding exasperated. “Nothing’s been the same since your father died. One day she’s her normal self and the next, well, I hardly know her anymore. She asked me why I’d take her things. I would never! You know that. Teaspoons? She believes I walked away with her teaspoons and God help me, even though I looked everywhere, I couldn’t find them. But I didn’t take them!”

      “I’m sure you didn’t. I’ll talk to her,” Susannah promised.

      “So she hasn’t said anything to you about me supposedly stealing her things?” Martha asked.

      “No.” This was a half truth. In their last conversation, her mother had said she wanted to have a talk about Martha once Susannah arrived. Susannah had assumed that the housekeeper was planning to retire. As it was, Martha cleaned the house only twice a week now. She was getting on in years, too.

      “I’ll talk to her,” Susannah said a second time—although she had no idea what she’d say.

      “Please do, and if you can’t convince her that I’m an honest and loyal employee then…then maybe I should look for work elsewhere.”

      “Don’t do that,” Susannah pleaded. “Give me a chance to get to the bottom of this.”

      “Good.” Martha seemed somewhat appeased.

      “I’ll be in touch when I get there,” Susannah said.

      After a few words of farewell, Martha ended the conversation and Susannah replaced the phone.

      “What was that all about?” Joe asked as he refolded the evening paper.

      Susannah sighed deeply and told him.

      “You did say your mother seems awfully forgetful these days.”

      Susannah nodded. “I talk to her almost daily, but there’s only so much information I can get over the phone.” She sighed again. “Mom keeps telling me the same things over and over, but I thought that was simply old age. Maybe it’s more than that.” Many of her friends faced similar concerns with their aging parents.

      “What about asking one of her friends?” Joe came into the kitchen and stood beside her. Gazing down at her, he clasped her shoulders, his eyes serious.

      She looked up at him with a resigned smile. “I’ll give Mrs. Henderson a call. She’s been Mom’s neighbor for years.”

      After finding the Hendersons’ phone number, Susannah reached for the phone again. When the initial greetings were dispensed with, she was quick to get to the reason for her call. “I’m worried about my mother, Mrs. Henderson. Have you talked to her lately?”

      “Oh, yes,” Rachel Henderson told her, “she’s often out puttering in her garden—not that she gets much done.”

      “How is she…mentally?” Susannah asked next.

      “Well, to be honest, she just hasn’t been herself since she lost George,” the neighbor said thoughtfully. “I can’t say exactly what’s going on…but I’m afraid something isn’t right with Vivian.”

      “How do you mean?” Susannah asked. Joe walked over to the coffeepot and poured himself a mug while watching her.

      She knew. Deep down, Susannah had known for weeks that her mother was having problems. She’d sensed changes in Vivian even before her father’s death.

      “I realize you talk to your mother a lot and I don’t mean to be putting my nose in where it doesn’t belong. Al said I should mind my own business, but then this evening…”

      “What happened this evening?” Susannah asked, suddenly nervous.

      “I’m sure you’re aware that Vivian hasn’t adjusted well to losing your father.”

      “I know.” Her mother was often weepy and sad, talking endlessly about George and how desperately she missed him. Susannah had driven across the mountains to visit over spring break but had only been able to stay four days. Vivian had clung to her, pleaded with her to remain in Colville longer, but Susannah couldn’t. Driving there and back meant the better part of two days, and that left only one day to prepare for school.

      Susannah had tried to talk her mother into moving to Seattle, but Vivian had stubbornly refused to consider it. She didn’t want to leave Colville, where she’d been born and raised. Her surviving friends all lived in the small town sixty-three miles north of Spokane.

      “Something happened this evening?” Susannah repeated, wanting Rachel to get to the point.

      “I know this may shock you, but your mother asked me to help her find George.”

      “What?” Susannah’s eyes shot to Joe. “She thinks my dad’s alive?”

      “She claims she saw him.”

      “Oh, no,” Susannah muttered.

      “She was wandering down the street, looking confused. I got worried, so I went after her. Then she started talking all this nonsense about George—how he brought her home and then disappeared. When was the last time you saw her?”

      “March.” Susannah knew she needed to visit Colville more often, but she hadn’t been able to make it during the last few months. Between Brian’s sports, other commitments, including a teaching workshop, and social engagements, there hadn’t been a single free weekend. Guilt felt like a lead weight dragging her down. “I planned to drive over this weekend. School’s out for the summer and I’m going to spend a couple of weeks with Mom.”

      “That’s wise,” Mrs. Henderson said. “She’s lost weight, you know.”

      Her mother was barely a hundred and ten pounds when Susannah had seen her in March.

      “I don’t think she cooks anymore,” her neighbor went on.

      During her visit, Vivian had asked her to make dinner every night. Susannah hadn’t minded and the shelves certainly seemed to be well stocked. Although Susannah had noticed a number of gourmet items her mother had never purchased before. Like fancy mustards. And sun-dried tomatoes in pesto, which Susannah had used in a pasta sauce.

      “You mean she isn’t eating?” Susannah clarified.

      “Not much, as far as I can tell. I keep inviting her over for dinner, but she refuses every time. I’m not the only one she’s refused, either. She seems to be holed up in the house and barely comes out, except to work in her garden.”

      “But…why?” СКАЧАТЬ